Martian Time-Slip

by Philip Kindred Dick

  Returning, Helio said, “He wants to stay with you, Mister.”

  “Sure he does,” Arnie said, pleased.

  “His thoughts,” Helio said, “are as clear as plastic to me, and mine likewise to him. We are both prisoners, Mister, in a hostile land.”

  At that Arnie laughed loud and long.

  “Truth always amuses the ignorant,” Helio said.

  “O.K. ,” Arnie said, “so I’m ignorant. I just get a kick out of you liking this warped kid, that’s all. No offense. So you got something in common, you two? I’m not surprised.” He swept up the book which Helio had been reading. “Pascal,” he read. “_Provincial Letters_. Christ on the cross, what’s the point of this? Is there a point?”

  “The rhythms,” Helio said, with patience. “Great prose establishes a cadence which attracts and holds the boy’s wandering attention.”

  “Why does it wander?”

  “From dread.”

  “Dread of what?”

  “Of death,” Helio said.

  Sobered, Arnie said, “Oh. Well. His death? Or just death in general?”

  “This boy experiences his own old age, his lying in a dilapidated state, decades from now, in an old persons’ home which is yet to be built here on Mars, a place of decay which be loathes beyond expression. In this future place he passes empty, weary years, bedridden--an object, not a person, kept alive through stupid legalities. When he tries to fix his eyes on the present, he almost at once is smitten by that dread vision of himself once again.”

  “Tell me about this old persons’ home,” Arnie said.

  “It is to be built soon,” Helio said. “Not for that purpose, but as a vast dormitory for immigrants to Mars.”

  “Yeah,” Arnie said, recognizing it. “In the F.D.R. range.”

  “The people arrive,” Hello said, “and settle, and live, and drive the wild Bleekmen from their last refuge. In turn, the Bleekmen put a curse on the land, sterile as it is. The Earth settlers fail; their buildings deteriorate year after year. Settlers return to Earth faster than they come here. At last this other use is made of the building: it becomes a home for the aged, for the poor, the senile and infirm.”

  “Why doesn’t he talk? Explain that.”

  “To escape from his dread vision he retreats back to happier days, days inside his mother’s body where there is no one else, no change, no time, no suffering. The womb life. He directs himself there, to the only happiness he has ever known. Mister, he refuses to leave that dear spot.”

  “I see,” Arnie said, only half-believing the Bleekman.

  “His suffering is like our own, like all other persons’. But in him it is worse, for he has his preknowledge, which we lack. It is a terrible knowledge to have. No wonder he has become--dark within.”

  “Yeah, he’s as dark as you are,” Arnie said, “and not outside, either, but like you said--inside. How can you stand him?”

  “I stand everything,” the Bleekman said.

  “You know what I think?” Arnie said. “I think he does more than just see into time. I think he controls time.”

  The Bleekman’s eyes became opaque. He shrugged.

  “Doesn’t he?” Arnie persisted. “Listen, Heliogabalus, you black bastard; this kid fooled around with last night. I know it. He saw it in advance and he tried to tamper with it. Was he trying to make it not happen? He was trying to halt time.”

  “Perhaps,” Helio said.

  “That’s quite a talent,” Arnie said. “Maybe he could go back into the past, like he wants to, and maybe alter the present. You keep working with him, keep after this. Listen, has that Doreen Anderton called or stopped by this morning? I want to talk to her.”

  “No.”

  “You think I’m nuts? As to what I imagine about this kid and his possible abilities?”

  “You are driven by rage, Mister,” the Bleekman said. “A man driven by rage may stumble, in his passion, onto truth.”

  “What crap,” Arnie said, disgusted. “Can’t you just say yes or no? Do you have to babble like you do?”

  Helio said, “Mister, I will tell you something about Mr. Bohlen, whom you wish to injure. He is very venerable--“

  “Vulnerable,” Arnie corrected.

  “Thank you. He is frail, easily hurt. It should be easy for you to put an end to him. However, he has with him a charm, given to him by someone who loves him or perhaps by several who love him. A Bleekman water witch charm. It may guarantee him safety.”

  After an interval, Arnie said, “We’ll see.”

  “Yes,” Helio said in a voice which Arnie had never heard him use before. “We will have to wait and see what strength still lives in such ancient items.”

  “The living proof that such junk is just so much worthless crap is you yourself. That you’d rather be here, taking orders from me, serving me my food and sweeping the floor and hanging up my coat, than roaming around out on that Martian desert like you were when I found you. Out there like a dying beast, begging for water.”

  “Hmm,” the Bleekman murmured. “Possibly so.”

  “And keep that in mind,” Arnie said. Or you might find yourself back out there again, with your paka eggs and your arrows, stumbling along going nowhere, nowhere at all, he thought to himself. I’m doing you a big favor, letting you live here like a human.

  In the early afternoon Arnie Kott received a message from Scott Temple. He placed it on the spindle of his decoding equipment, and soon he was listening to the message.

  “We located this character’s field, Arnie, out in the F.D.R. range, all right. He wasn’t there, but a slave rocket had just landed; in fact, that’s how we found it right off--we followed the trail of the rocket in. Anyhow, the guy had a large storage shed full of goodies; we took all the goodies, and they’re in our warehouse now. Then we planted a seed-type A-weapon and blew up the field and the shed and all the equipment lying around.”

  Good deal, Arnie thought.

  “And, like you said, so he’d realize who he’s up against, we left a message. We stuck a note up on the remains of the landing field guidance tower that said, Arnie Kott doesn’t like what you stand for. How does that strike you, Arnie?”

  “That strikes me fine,” Arnie said aloud, although it did seem a little--what was the word? Corny.

  The message continued, “And he’ll discover it when he gets back. And I thought--this is my idea, subject to your correction--that we’d take a trip out there later in the week, just to be sure he’s not rebuilding. Some of these independent operators are sort of screwy, like those guys last year that tried to set up their own telephone system. Anyhow, I believe that takes care of it. And by the way--he was using Norb Steiner’s old gear; we found records around with Steiner’s name on them. So you were right. It’s a good thing we moved right onto this guy, because he could have been trouble.”

  The message ended. Arnie put the reel on his encoder, seated himself at the mike, and answered.

  “Scott, you did good. Thanks. I trust we’ve heard the last from that guy, and I approve your confiscating his stock; we can use it all. Drop by some evening and have a drink.” He stopped the mechanism, then, and rewound the reel.

  From the kitchen came the insistent, muffled sound of Heliogabalus reading aloud to Manfred Steiner. Hearing it, Arnie felt irritation, and then his resentment toward the Bleekman surged up. Why’d you let me get mixed up with Jack Bohlen when you could read the kid’s mind? he demanded. Why didn’t you speak up?

  He felt outright hatred for Heliogabalus. You betrayed me, too, he said to himself. Like the rest of them, Anne and Jack and Doreen; all of them.

  Going to the kitchen door he yelled in, “You getting results, or aren’t you?”

  Heliogabalus lowered his book and said, “Mister, this requires time and effort.”

  “Time!” Arnie said. “Hell, that’s the whole problem. Send him back into the past, say two years ago, and have him buy the Henry Wallace in my name--can you do that?”


  There was no answer. The question, to Heliogabalus, was too absurd even to consider. Flushing, Arnie slammed the kitchen door shut and stalked back into the living room.

  Then have him send me back into the past, Arnie said to himself. This time-travel ability must be worth something; why can’t I get the kind of results I want? What’s the matter with everyone?

  They’re making me wait just to annoy me, he said to himself.

  And, he decided, I’m not going to wait much longer.

  By one o’clock in the afternoon still no service calls had come in from the Yee Company. Jack Bohlen, waiting by the phone in Doreen Anderton’s apartment, knew that something was wrong.

  At one-thirty he phoned Mr. Yee.

  “I assumed that Mr. Kott would inform you, Jack,” Mr. Yee said in his prosaic manner. “You are no longer my employee, Jack; you are his. Thank you for your fine service record.”

  Demoralized by the news, Jack said, “Kott bought my contract?”

  “That is the case, Jack.”

  Jack hung up the phone.

  “What did he say?” Doreen asked, watching him wideeyed.

  “I’m Arnie’s.”

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I better call him and find out. It doesn’t look as if he’s going to call me.” Playing with me, he thought. Sadistic games . . . enjoying himself, perhaps.

  “There’s no use telephoning him,” Doreen said. “He never says anything on the phone. We’ll have to go over to his place. I want to go along; please let me.”

  “O.K.,” he said, going to the closet to get his coat. “Let’s go.” he said to her.

  14

  At two o’clock in the afternoon Otto Zitte poked his head out the side door of the Bohlen house and ascertained that no one was watching. He could leave safely, Silvia Bohlen realized, as she saw what he was doing.

  What have I done? she asked herself as she stood in the middle of the bedroom clumsily buttoning her blouse. How can I expect to keep it secret? Even if Mrs. Steiner doesn’t see him, he’ll surely tell that June Henessy, and she’ll blab it to everybody along the William Butler Yeats; she loves gossip. I know Jack will find out. And Leo might have come home early--

  But it was too late now. Over and done with. Otto was gathering up his suitcases, preparing to depart.

  I wish I was dead, she said to herself.

  “Goodbye, Silvia,” Otto said hurriedly as he started toward the front door, “I will call you.”

  She did not answer; she concentrated on putting on her shoes.

  “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” he asked, pausing at the bedroom door.

  Shooting a glance at him she said, “No. And get out of here. Don’t ever come back--I hate you, I really do.”

  He shrugged. “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, with perfect logic, “you’re a horrible person. I never had anything to do with a person like you before. I must be out of my mind, it must be the loneliness.”

  He seemed genuinely hurt. Flushed red, he hung around at the doorway of the bedroom. “It was as much your idea as mine,” he mumbled finally, glaring at her.

  “Go away,” she said, turning her back to him.

  At last the front door opened and shut. He had gone.

  Never, never again, Silvia said to herself. She went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and got down her bottle of phenobarbital; hastily pouring herself a glass of water, she took 150 milligrams, gulping them down and gasping.

  I shouldn’t have been so mean to him, she realized in a flash of conscience. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t really his fault, it was mine. If I’m no good, why blame him? If it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else, sooner or later.

  She thought, Will he ever come back? Or have I driven him off forever? Already she felt lonely, unhappy and completely at a loss once more, as if she were doomed to drift in a hopeless vacuum for ever and ever.

  He was actually very nice, she decided. Gentle and considerate. I could have done a lot worse.

  Going into the kitchen, she seated herself at the table, picked up the telephone, and dialed June Henessy’s number.

  Presently June’s voice sounded in her ear. “Hello?”

  Silvia said, “Guess what.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Wait’ll I light a cigarette.” Silvia Bohlen lit a cigarette, got an ashtray, moved her chair so that she was comfortable, and then, with an infinitude of detail, plus a little essential invention at critical points, she told her.

  To her surprise she found the telling to be as enjoyable as the experience itself.

  Perhaps even a bit more so.

  Flying back across the desert to his base in the F.D.R. Mountains, Otto Zitte ruminated on his assignation with Mrs. Bohlen and congratulated himself; he was in a good mood, despite Silvia’s not unnatural fit of remorse and accusation just as he was leaving.

  You have to expect that, he advised himself.

  It had happened before; true, it always upset him, but that was one of the odd little tricks typical of a woman’s mind: there always came a point when they had to sidestep reality and start casting blame in all directions, toward anyone and anything handy.

  He did not much care; nothing could rob him of the memory of the happy time which the two of them had engaged in.

  So now what? Back to the field to have lunch, rest up, shave, shower and change his clothes. . . . There would still be time enough to start out once more on an authentic selling trip with nothing else in mind this time but pure business itself.

  Already, he could see the ragged peaks of the mountains ahead; he would soon be there.

  It seemed to him that he saw a plume of ugly gray smoke drifting up from the mountains directly ahead.

  Frightened, he stepped up the velocity of the ‘copter. No doubt of it; the smoke rose at or near his field. They found me! he said to himself with a sob. The UN--they wiped me out and they’re waiting for me. But he went on anyhow; he had to know for sure.

  Below lay the remains of his field. A smoking, rubblestrewn ruin. He circled aimlessly, crying openly, tears spilling down his cheeks. There was no sign of the UN, however, no military vehicles or soldiers.

  Could an incoming rocket have exploded?

  Quickly, Otto landed the ‘copter; on foot he ran across the hot ground, toward the debris that had been his storage shed.

  As he reached the signal tower of the field he saw, pinned to it, a square of cardboard.

  ARNIE KOTT DOESN’T LIKE WHAT YOU STAND FOR

  Again and again he read it, trying to understand it. Arnie Kott--he was just getting ready to call on him--Arnie had been Norb’s best customer. What did this mean? Had he already provided poor service to Arnie, or how else had he made Arnie mad? It didn’t make sense--what had he done to Arnie Kott to deserve this?

  Why? Otto asked. What did I do to you? Why have you destroyed me?

  Presently he made his way over to the shed, hoping beyond hope that some of the stocks could be salvaged, hoping to find something among the remains. .

  There were no remains. The stock had been taken; he saw no single can, glass jar, package, or bag. The litter of the building itself, yes, but only that. Then they--those who had dropped the bomb--had come in first and pilfered the stock.

  You bombed me, Arnie Kott, and you stole my goods, Otto said, as he wandered in a circle, clenching and unclenching his fists and darting glances of rage and frenzy up at the sky.

  And still he did not understand why.

  There has to be a reason, he said to himself. And I will find it out; I will not rest, goddamn you, Arnie Kott, until I know. And when I find out I will get you. I will pay you back for what you did.

  He blew his nose, snuffled, dragged himself back to his ‘copter with slow steps, seated himself inside, and stared ahead for a long, long time.

  At last he opened one of the suitcases. From it he took the .22-cali
ber pistol; he sat holding it on his lap, thinking about Arnie Kott.

  To Arnie Kott, Heliogabalus said, “Mister, excuse me for disturbing you. But if you are ready I will explain to you what you must do.”

  Delighted, Arnie stopped at his desk. “Fire away.”

  With a sad and haughty expression on his face, Helio said, “You must take Manfred out into the desert and cross, on foot, to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Mountains. There your pilgrimage must end when you bring the boy to Dirty Knobby, the Rock which is sacred to the Bleekmen. Your answer lies there, when you have introduced the boy to Dirty Knobby.”

  Wagging his finger at the tame Bleekman, Arnie said slyly, “And you told me it was a fraud.” He had felt all the time that there was something to the Bleekman religion. Helio had tried to deceive him.

  “At the sanctuary of the rock you must commune. The spirit which animates Dirty Knobby will receive your collective psyches and perhaps if it is merciful, it will grant what you request.” Helio added, “It is in actuality the capacity within the boy which you must depend on. The rock alone is powerless. However, it is as follows: time is weakest at that spot where Dirty Knobby lies. Upon that fact the Bleekmafl has prevailed for centuries.”

  “I see,” Arnie said. “A sort of puncture in time. And you guys get at the future through it. Well, it’s the past I’m interested in, now, and frankly this all sounds fishy to me. But I’ll try it. You’ve told me so many different yarns about that rock--“

  Helio said, “What I said before is true. Alone, Dirty Knobby could have done nothing for you.” He did not cringe; he met Arnie’s gaze.

  “You think Manfred will cooperate?”

  “I have told him of the rock and he is excited at the idea of seeing it. I said that, in that place, one might escape backward into the past. That idea enthralls him. However--“ Helio paused. “You must repay the boy for his effort.”